John Post fall
by consultinghobbit
Summary: Basically just a short story told from John's point of view after Sherlock falls.


I feel sick. I feel like crying, sobbing, retching.

I reach for the glass of water beside me. My hand just falls lifelessly next to it and I move slowly to pick it up.

I don't feel sick like I've caught a stomach bug. No, I feel sick like I am drowning. Like I am being thrown violently down a fast running stream, like I am swallowing gallons of water, unable to save myself and have no control over anything. I feel as if I am being hurled through this river as I grasp for rocks and branches to hold on to and bring myself to my safety. I grasp for people's hands. No one cares enough to help me.

I bring the glass of water to my lips. I barely drink.

I can't drink.

I feel like heaving whenever I move a muscle.

I don't feel like this for any other reason than one. Sherlock.

Heavy, worthless, alone.

I cannot bring myself to speak.

I do not care for the gifts people bring. The apologies they speak. Slick from the tongues of lying vermin. They do not mean what they are saying. "He meant so much to us" "we understand how you feel" "it will get better". It will not get better. You didn't know him like I know him. Knew him. You didn't appreciate his words. His interesting little anecdotes, his wonderful stories. You despised him. It's only now he's come to pass that you feel the need to express your compassion.

It is 4:38 in the morning.

I still have not slept.

It's been 3 days and I cannot sleep. I don't see why I should be able to.

I have lost my best friend. I make myself sick. I am putrid. How could I let this happen. The amount of times I've heard "don't blame yourself."

How can I not?

In this situation where my best friend hurls himself off a rooftop and doesn't tell me he loves me, I think I am somewhat to blame, he obviously was ashamed and disgusted at himself, and I have sat here and watched it happen. Slowly but surely.

I refill my now empty glass. Whiskey not water.

I don't flinch when I sip it, I just sit still, and stare through the window opposite me at the skyline. I watch the London eye turn, I notice it has made 9 full revolutions so I look at the clock, and it has been four hours and twenty one minutes. I have been staring out of my window for two hundred and sixty one minutes, I sighed and downed the remainder of my whiskey. Not even a blink. I was motionless, completely unfazed, I suppose I had sobbed non stop for the last 3 days. I had to stop some time.

If I was with Sherlock this wouldn't be happening, we'd be out solving some sort of crime that I would never fully understand, but I'd watch Sherlock deduce the situation, I'd watch his blue eyes light up when he'd say the word "murder" or "serial killer." His blue eyes. Blue like the ocean, not because they shone forty different shades when they met the sun's glare, but because they contained green ripples through them. It was like looking at the Earth from way up above. At all the minuscule continents as they floated in the sea. I wish I was far away. In space I mean- I would look down and would not be obliged to give a damn about anyone's irrelevant little problems, because I would be so far away, and they would be so insignificant.

I had done this every night since Sherlock fell. I would remember little details about him that I didn't have the decency to notice when he was still...with me. It always ended the same way. Me wishing I could leave everything behind, wishing I could join him up in the clouds where he didn't have to deal with anyone's dilemmas. He was free from it all.

I let a tear roll down my cheek. I did not wipe it away, I just continued to gaze out of the window, I watched the lights outside and as the wheel made its tenth rotation I inhaled a large breath and let another tear fall down onto my lips. It tasted salty. Like sea spray. I began to again imagine being pulled down the river by the overpowering current, no one could help me any more- not since Sherlock left.

I never thought this would happen. I thought I'd have years left with him, years in which I could tell him how much he meant to me. How I could explain how he'd helped me. How he'd saved me.

Instead I only had my thoughts. I could only talk to him through my mind. And even then he wasn't really listening. He can not reply. I can not take it.

Eleven rotations. I poured myself another glass of whiskey.


End file.
